They met under the overhang of an old drain, that dripped rain from the autumnal squall; the rivulets a ghost of flows past.  They slunk in like shadows, deeper shades against the shadows all around.

“What now Catkin, what now Dammels?”

“Ah brother, ah sister.  Here, see what is in my bag.  A maiden’s fancy, lifted from her lover’s pocket, even as I sent him to the arms of another.”

“A pretty trinket, Catkin.  Into the covert with it!  And you, Dammels?  What of the cully Hubert?”

“He arointed over hill and dale, chasing the sun.  I purloined his ear, while he slept.  When he awoke, I gave to him that it was the sun that had it, and sent him hounding it.”

“His ear? Sister, it is yet a prettier trinket.  Into the covert with it too.”

Hubert smiles merrily in the darkness, waiting for them to leave.  Age and weirding they may have, but in his hand, leather bound is the weight of a cold iron key.


~ by Electro-mechanical Man on June 4, 2011.

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